


Rising Into

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Seeing in color, Soulmates, earlier meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: Still, the idea of a soulmate being important and necessary to living a whole and complete life persists. If it didn’t, there wouldn’t be entire films about it. Sweeping declarations between two people who see in black and white, who don’t and will never experience colorization after their lips meet. The moment of devastation when a soulmate dies and the partner’s world goes monochrome once more. Infidelity becoming apparent when a formerly grayscale person can’t hide that they’ve made the transition. Two strangers locking lips and then their shocked expressions as they both find themselves having their Munchkinland moment, only to be immediately separated.They’re just film plots. They don’t happen in real life, not really.Except now both of the last two have happened to Greg.Of course.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 27
Kudos: 366
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	Rising Into

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Mystrade Soulmates Week! Huge thanks to Paia and hoomhum for beta reading and encouragement!

Greg knows his marriage is over the day he comes home to find Katherine sitting at their kitchen table, holding in her hands the purple scarf she’s been wearing for a few weeks, sobbing. It’s the way she holds it, not down in her hands like she forgot she had it, not as an after thought she can use to wring her hands in while she cries, upset by some other problem. She’s looking at it, elbows on the tabletop, and she runs her thumbs over the sparkly fabric and gasps and cries harder. He watches from the doorway for a moment that stretches forever and understands exactly what’s happened. 

His wife sees color. 

His bags are packed before the sun sets that night. 

***

You hear about this happening from time to time in unsoulbound couples or in mismatched ones. Two grayscale-sighted people are together until a moment of indiscretion, or a misunderstanding leads to an unfaithful kiss and the sudden bloom of color. It’s more of a soap opera plot than a common occurrence. It’s perfectly normal these days for people to marry without a soulbond, or to separate from a soulbond to be with someone else. If being with your soulmate mattered to everyone, hardly anyone would ever settle down. The world is big. Life is complicated. The concept of soulmates is romantic. Stories about soulbonds are as old as time itself, but times do change. 

Still, the idea of a soulmate being important and necessary to living a whole and complete life persists. If it didn’t, there wouldn’t be entire films about it. Sweeping declarations between two people who see in black and white, who don’t and will never experience colorization after their lips meet. The moment of devastation when a soulmate dies and the partner’s world goes monochrome once more. Infidelity becoming apparent when a formerly grayscale person can’t hide that they’ve made the transition. Two strangers locking lips and then their shocked expressions as they both find themselves having their Munchkinland moment, only to be immediately separated. 

They’re just film plots. They don’t happen in real life, not _really._

Except now both of the last two have happened to Greg. 

Of course. 

***

**1989**

Greg is twenty-four and he’s going to need to find a new flatmate soon. Paul, his current one, just kissed his soulmate two months ago, and Greg’s pretty sure that’s heading to the courthouse any day now. Chandra, the girlfriend-and-soulmate, isn’t the type to want to flat share with the copper who used to be the bassist in Paul’s old, defunct punk band, and Greg can’t swing the rent on his own, not on a constable’s salary. Paul hasn’t said outright that he’s planning to leave, but, well…

One thing Greg won’t miss about Paul is having to put up with Chandra’s fancy mates and weird “gatherings” at the flat when all Greg wants to do is zone out in front of the telly at the end of the day, at most maybe head down to the Arms two blocks over. 

But Chandra likes “entertaining” and so now Paul does too, and Greg is roped into it because it would be bad manners not to attend a party in his own flat. Probably. 

“Do I even know any of these people?” Greg asks, _whines,_ while he’s dusting the stereo speakers at Chandra’s direction. 

“Some of them!” She chirps, emptying crisps into bowls in the tiny kitchen. “You’ve met Laurel! She likes you, you know.”

Greg sighs. He’s well aware of Laurel’s _feelings_ on him. Or rather, her desire to _feel him up_ every chance she gets. She’s not a bad person, necessarily, but she has a laugh like a donkey and she wears ten sprays of perfume more than she needs. Greg is extremely not interested. “Anyone other than Laurel?”

“Mmm,” Chandra hums, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Well, you remember Kenneth?”

Greg grimaces. “The Oxford twat?”

“Yes,” Chandra says, not even bothering to get offended because Kenneth _is_ a twat who can’t speak on any topic without mentioning he _studied at Oxford, you know, old boy._ “Well he’s dating my friend Melinda now, and she’s coming, so he’s coming. Bringing some old Uni friend, too.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Great.” Now there’ll be _two_ posh twats who can’t shut the fuck up about _Oxford._

***

Hours later he’s tucked up next to the one window in the sitting room, smoking out of it and debating just climbing out onto the little fire escape for a while. It’s cold out, but the flat is _sweltering_ because Paul’s made pizza in the oven and there are a dozen people in a room that can only comfortably fit two, most days. 

“Alright, Greg?” Paul wanders over and passes Greg a bottle of cider. 

Greg absently clinks the neck of his against the neck of Paul’s. “It’s boiling in here.”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees, but he’s clearly not really listening, because his eyes are on Chandra, over by the kitchen doorway having an animated discussion with Frankie. 

Frankie’s cool, a friend of Greg and Paul’s from the bad old days when they were a lot wilder. She’s brought her girlfriend. Not a soulmate. Frankie had shrugged when Paul asked her, still high on his own burst of color and intent on asking everyone prying questions about their soulbond status, and she and Greg had shared a little quirk-of-the-eyebrow behind his back, amused at his puppy-like enthusiasm, all of a sudden, for all things everlasting love. 

“Greg,” Paul says after a few moments have passed in which Greg hasn’t done much but wipe his own sweaty brow and wonder if he’ll be able to slip out unnoticed. 

Greg isn’t surprised at Paul’s tone at all. He knows what comes next. “When’s the big day, then?”

Paul flushes. “Well—” he clears his throat. “Well, we were thinking… I dunno. Maybe in the spring? Few months?”

Greg nods, mulling this over. “I think that sounds nice.” He slaps Paul on the back. “You’ll make a gorgeous April bride, mate.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “Stop. Listen, I hate to do it to you—”

“You’re giving me plenty of notice,” Greg says, stopping him with a punch to the arm. “I’m happy for you.”

“Chandra’s great. I love her.”

“Mate, you don’t need to convince me. I _know_ , everyone _knows_. Listen, it’s been nice ever since you—” Greg waves his fingers vaguely at Paul’s eyes. “I’ll miss the way you help me from leaving the house all mismatched every day.”

“You wear a uniform,” Paul deadpans, then sighs. “I worry,” he says. “You seem off, man, like you’re not happy.”

Greg takes a swallow of cider and tips his head back against the wall behind them. “I’m fine.”

“It seems like you don’t like Chandra. Or, sometimes like even mentioning a soulbond gets you in a mood.”

“I _like_ Chandra,” Greg insists, because he _does._ “Her mates are weird, I don’t really _get it.”_

“You know it’s people from before all that with her dad,” Paul says for about the ten thousandth time since he met Chandra. “She used to be a rich girl, makes sense she has rich girl friends. She can’t help that everyone she grew up with is posh any more than we can help being a couple of punks from the East End.” 

“I _know that Paul,”_ Greg groans. “Why are we having this conversation? I’m _fine,_ and soulbond talk doesn't get me in a mood. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You used to be so…”

Greg sighs and drains the bottle in his hand, pushing off the wall. “Just because I’ve grown up and don’t act like your slaggy bent friend anymore doesn't mean I’m—”

_“MELINDA!”_

The screech of Chandra’s excited cry is joined by the squeal of another girl’s voice, and Greg looks to the door just in time to catch the flurry of hugging, braceleted arms, the smashing-together of fluffy permed hair, as Chandra throws her arms around Melinda, who is closely followed by the dreaded _Kenneth_ , as well as a tall, lanky bloke who must be the other Oxford dickhead.

Greg sighs. “Think I’ll nip down to the shop,” he says to Paul. “Need a pack of smokes. You?”

“You’re leaving?” 

Greg wishes he could reach out and shake Paul, tell him to stop being such a worrywort. Convince him that he’s happy for him. But Greg isn’t really sure _he’s_ convinced of that, so he just gives Paul’s shoulder a shove. “I’m coming back,” he says. “Promise.”

He makes his way across the flat, which takes longer than you’d think, considering it’s the size of a shoebox. He has to step over a circle of people sitting on the floor, and dodge and weave so he doesn't smack into the telly. There’s still a bottleneck at the door while Chandra and Melinda chitter at each other as Dickhead Kenneth looks on smarmily. 

“Pardon me, mate,” Greg murmurs to the tall guy as he slides past, laying a hand on the bloke’s shoulder to ease him aside so Greg can get out of the flat. “Thanks.”

“Oh, of course—” says the man, his voice soft and his accent, even just in those three words, refined as white sugar. 

Greg shoots him a wink as he goes, just for the hell of it, and decides to hop the banister rather than run down the first flight of stairs just to the left. 

What he doesn't hear as he goes, is that same posh voice asking, “Who on earth was _that?”_

***

When Greg returns from the corner shop, having enjoyed a long, lingering smoke just outside of it, Kenneth’s posh friend is loitering on the sidewalk outside his and Paul’s block of flats. 

“Not a party person?” Greg asks, figuring he may as well be friendly, even if the guy is probably a twat. “Or was it so crowded you fell out the door?”

He huffs and shakes his head. “Just a bit hot in there,” he says. 

Greg notes that he’s still wearing his coat (it’s a ridiculously _nice_ coat, so maybe he’d been afraid to leave it with the mix of designer labels and punk leather currently strewn over Greg’s bed) but doesn't call him out for having apparently backed directly out of the party upon arrival. Greg doesn't exactly have room to talk; it’s _his_ party, and _he_ ditched it. Didn’t even grab his jacket, though he doesn't mind that he’s shivering a bit now. It’ll just take longer for the flat to stifle him again once he forces himself to go back up. 

“Do you smoke?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I… yes, I do—” 

Greg presents the pack of cigarettes, then gives it a little shake when the guy hesitates. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m not quite ready to go back up yet.” 

Posh Boy takes a cigarette and, while Greg pops one between his own lips, produces a very nice flip-top lighter, inlaid with what looks to be mother of pearl, from the pocket of his long coat. Greg accepts the light by leaning in and cupping his hands round the flame, heedless to the fact that his hands brush Posh Boy’s when he does. 

Posh Boy clears his throat before lighting his own cigarette, and then they’re smoking in silence. 

“I’m Greg, by the way,” Greg says after the silence stretches long enough that it’s getting awkward. “I live here.”

He watches the other man blow a plume of smoke and steamed breath into the air. 

“Sherrinford,” says Posh Boy. 

Greg bites his lip to keep from laughing. _Christ,_ he thinks. _Of course his name is daft._ It’s not surprising, being that he’s Awful Kenneth’s mate. “So, you’re a friend of Kenneth’s, then?”

An interesting thing happens; Posh Sherrinford’s posh face does a _thing_ at the mention of Kenneth. 

_Oh._

Greg chuckles. “Don’t like Kenneth then?”

“I…”

Greg laughs outright at the sheepishness on Sherrinford’s face. “No one does, mate,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“I am, as a matter of fact, acquainted with Melinda, who introduced me to Kenneth the year that we both entered our studies at Oxford.” He clears his throat and smokes. “Melinda is a good friend, and her parents are friends of the family. It so happens that in order to remain friends with Melinda, I must tolerate... _Kenneth.”_

Greg throws his head back and laughs. “You say his name just the way I think it in my head. _God,_ what a tosser!”

“Of the highest order, yes,” Sherrinford drawls, with his crisp consonants. Drawing on his cigarette, Sherrinford seems to study Greg. “I have been told congratulations are in order for Chandra and your flatmate. George, was it?”

“Wrong Beatle,” Greg teases. “Paul. And yeah, they’re all colored up and raring to go, seems like.”

Sherrinford makes another face, this one softer, less judgmental. He tilts his head and blows out smoke and says, “How nice.” 

“It is,” Greg sighs, finishing off his cigarette in two more quick drags before flicking it toward the gutter. “I’ve got to head back in. Coming?”

Sherrinford, and Greg _really_ needs to think of a nickname for this guy, studies his own cigarette before shrugging and flicking it aside. “After you.”

***

Greg shows Sherrinford where to put his coat when they get back up to the flat. 

Sherrinford produces a flask from the inside pocket before laying his gorgeous coat atop the motley collection Greg’s bed. 

“Well, well,” Greg teases. “Let me guess...fancy brandy?”

“Cognac,” Sherrinford replies, mock-serious, then cracks a smile (it’s cute). “I actually hate it, but Melinda and I have a habit of drinking it. My father only kept cognac in his study, and we would sneak it as children. She asked me to bring some.”

“That’s sweet,” Greg says. 

“Would you care for a nip?”

And that’s how Greg ends up trading tiny sips of cognac with a bloke named Sherrinford of all things for the next several hours. 

Sherrinford is funny, in a dry way. Handsome, in an aristocratic way. Sweet, in an awkward way. And fucked up about the idea of soulbonds, in a Greg way. 

He snags a pair of shot glasses after the first swap of the flask between the two of them. It’s a paranoid move, the sort of thing people do when they’re anxious about soulbonding. It’s unlikely to experience the color shift just off the trace amounts of saliva on the mouthpiece of a flask, even repeated exposures. But some people are really intense about it, and it seems Sherrinford is the type. 

That’s fine, because so is Greg. 

He gets some odd looks from Paul for the first hour, and Greg figures it is actually kind of strange that he’s sticking so close to this guy he’s never met before, but Sherrinford’s interesting. He’s posh, and you can’t miss it, but he’s not condescending. He’s a bit cagey, actually. Doesn't want to talk about himself much, and is downright evasive when the topic of professions comes up. He deflects and asks Greg about working for the Met, and it’s not until much later when things are starting to wind down that Greg realizes he still doesn't have a clue what Sherrinford _does_ , even though he’s asked at least three times. 

The thing they talk about the most is soulbonding, but in a weird and roundabout way. Sherrinford’s eyes cut to Melinda and Kenneth and he says: “I don’t put much weight in it, but one does sometimes hope that others do; some grayscale matches just beg for one or both parties to...find their color, so to speak.”

Greg says: “My parents were mismatched, but both pairs of grandparents were soulbound. Mum’s parents were liberal, and dad’s were. Not. Holidays were…”

“Don’t preach to this choir,” Sherrinford sighs. “This past Christmas was…” He shudders. 

Greg grins and holds out his shot glass for more cognac. 

They sneak outside for cigarettes. They huddle over the records and tapes in the corner and argue over what constitutes good party music. They eat Paul’s burnt pizza and try to have conversations with other people. They come back together to talk some more. 

“I really am happy for Paul,” Greg says, slurring just a tiny bit. “Chandra is gorgeous, obviously, and he says her hair is fantastically blonde.” 

“Mm,” Sherrinford hums with a loose shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Women… not my area.”

Greg smiles, ducking to hide it in a sip from his third cider of the night. “Noted,” he murmurs with a wink. 

It’s weird— he hasn’t felt like he might roll the dice on someone in ages, not in over a _year,_ but here’s this cute, posh guy hinting at being gay in the corner at this party Greg hadn’t wanted to be involved in, and he’s a little drunk and…

Yeah, maybe. Maybe tonight’s the night he breaks the dry spell? Greg lets himself relax into his slouch while Sherrinford moves the conversation back to what they were saying earlier about INXS. He sneaks little glances at Sherrinford’s profile. It’s not that he doesn't make eye contact with Greg while they talk; he does, and a lot. But he’s also got this tendency to scan the room. Like he’s looking out for threats, or just reassuring himself everything’s still fine. 

Greg has some thoughts about what Sherrinford might do for work. He keeps them to himself. If he’s right, Sherrinford not only just admitted to Greg that he’s not into women but that he’d get fired if anyone important knew it. 

***

It’s after midnight when they return from another run down to the corner shop to find the party dwindling. 

“For you,” Greg shouts to Paul before throwing a packet of crisps at him in a pop fly. “And you,” he says, handing a ginger ale over to Chandra. 

“You star,” she groans. She’s feeling the effects of mixing too many alcohols tonight and had requested something to settle her stomach when Greg volunteered himself and Sherrinford to go out for provisions and more cigarettes. 

“Oh, hell,” Sherrinford says, shrugging out of his coat and glancing around the flat. “My ride seems to have gone.”

Greg hadn’t noticed the absence of Awful Kenneth and Melinda. “Bit rude,” he comments, taking Sherrinford’s coat and heading toward his room. “You’ll be alright? Got cab fare?”

Sherrinford shoots him a wry smile and nods. “Quite alright.” 

“Don’t scurry away,” Greg finds himself saying. He steadfastly ignores Paul’s interested, raised-eyebrow look his way. “Just because they’ve gone.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sherrinford says. “Besides, you’re absconding with my overcoat.” 

Greg feels himself go red. “Right,” he says, and hurries into his room. 

“We’re going to play a game!” Chandra shouts after him. “Hurry up!”

Greg lays Sherrinford’s coat down on the bed, now home to only a few others, and gives himself a moment to collect himself. 

Greg hasn’t liked anyone this easily, this quickly, in ages. He’s pretty sure that he’s never liked a bloke like this right away. He’s awkward with it, and a little queasy. 

Again, all mentions of it have been indirect, but Greg knows Sherrinford feels similarly to Greg: soulbonds aren’t a requirement for happiness or success, and might even be considered an obstacle if they show up at the wrong time. These last few years, while Greg was trying to pull himself together and leave his wilder days behind him, the idea of kissing some stranger at a club only to have the world explode in color and expectations was terrifying and awful. He’d changed his ways pretty fast once he realized how much being tied to another person could fuck him up. 

What if his soulmate didn’t like Greg’s plans? What if they were the sort of person who thought a soulbond _had_ to be forever? And what if it all went just fine? What if it was _wonderful,_ and then his soulmate _died?_ Greg’s been haunted by the emptiness on his grandfather’s face for over a decade now. Gran had died suddenly, and the man’s world had plunged into grayscale in a literal heartbeat. Greg wanted no part of that grief. 

Less dramatically, but still importantly - What if Greg’s soulmate was in fact a bloke? Greg had always gone for both, and that hadn’t ever seemed like a problem. But then he joined the police and… well. It’s not that Greg thinks he’ll never have it off with a man again, but being serious about one would make work difficult. 

If Sherrinford is what Greg thinks he is, it’s true for him, too. It’s probably a big reason he’s so paranoid about things like sharing a drink. 

But what are the _odds?_ Greg’s been itching to just… be with someone again. He’s missed it. In the last few years he can count on one hand the number of people he’s gotten close to, and most of them were semi-long exclusive-type things that felt like a stop gap. He met a girl, kissed her, tried to hide his relief that he stayed grayscale, and then dated her for months regardless of whether it was that great of a match because it was _safe._ Safe meant no change, no risk, no chance of falling into something he couldn’t get himself out of.

He’s been realizing lately, with all of Paul’s worried looks and little comments, that he’s gotten downright _phobic_ about soulbonds. 

Maybe he’s been foolish. Maybe he’s missing out on fun. He had a lot of fun, once upon a time. Has Sherrinford? Or has he always kept a safe distance between himself and the world? 

Greg decides he’s being a bit dramatic and resolves to get out there and actually enjoy the party now that it’s not a crush of people and the most obnoxious of Chandra’s crowd have left. Maybe he’ll get Sherrinford’s number. 

It’ll be fine. 

Of course when he gets back out into the lounge, Chandra’s holding up an empty wine bottle and announcing the start of a game of Spin the Bottle. 

_For fuck’s sake._

***

It goes alright at first. Greg sits in the circle, feeling a bit numb and horrified. He meets Sherrinford’s shuttered eyes across the circle and winces. Maybe he should refuse to play, give Sherrinford a reason to say “I’ll join Greg in just watching.”

He doesn't. 

A look around the circle makes him feel a bit less nervous. There’s Chandra and Paul- obviously bonded to each other. Frankie, who Greg’s kissed before actually, so for him she’s safe. Her girlfriend- grayscale. Sherrinford- Greg’s not thinking about it. A couple Greg’s met a few times, Marcy and Douglas - soulbound. And Laurel, who is giving Greg the eye. He promptly focuses his own eyes on Paul, to his left. 

“You can’t be serious,” Greg mutters. 

“It’ll be fun,” Paul replies brightly, clearly a little drunk. “Relax, mate!”

Greg sighs. 

“I’m going first!” Chandra announces, and it starts with Frankie’s girlfriend crawling across the circle to lay one on her to a round of hoots and applause. 

Paul spins and lands on Greg, smacks a wet kiss to his lips and gives his hair a vicious ruffle while Greg rolls his eyes. Greg holds his breath and spins, lands on Frankie and is nearly limp with relief. They do a cheesy film noir clutch, just mashing lips together dramatically. Greg thinks of making a joke about black and white films, not knowing the difference or something, but he’s too nervous to really put it together in his mind and it would probably be in poor taste anyway. 

Douglas spins, and then Marcy. The bottle lands on Frankie’s girlfriend and then on Chandra. More hoots and hollers. Laurel looks determined when she spins, but it lands on Paul who makes some cheesy crack before sweeping her into a dip. He nearly drops her. 

It’s Sherrinford’s turn. Greg holds his breath. The man looks completely horrified to be playing at all, but with the awkward air of a person trying to fit in. Like they’re a bunch of teenagers and not in their twenties. 

The bottle spins. 

It lands, unmistakably, on Greg. 

Even a little drunk, Paul is aware enough to look alarmed. Greg and Sherrinford stare at each other, and Greg feels anxiety prickle up the back of his neck. 

“Go on, boys!” Chandra chirps. 

Sherrinford looks torn. 

Greg feels it. 

He can’t do this. He can’t follow through; can’t make Sherrinford do what he clearly doesn't feel comfortable doing. 

“I need a smoke, actually,” Greg blurts, standing up from the floor to a chorus of groans. “What!” He holds up his hands. “It’s fine! Paul’s turn again.” He slaps Paul on the shoulder and goes, digging his crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he heads for the window and the fire escape, which he climbs out and onto. 

His heart is pounding, he realizes, as he lights the cigarette and shivers in the cold. He closes his eyes and focuses on the city sounds, drawing in a deep breath, letting it go, and following it with a drag off the cigarette. _Calm down,_ he tells himself. _Smoke, go back in, talk to him about how stupid Spin the Bottle is. Don’t be weird about it._

He opens his eyes and smokes, staring unfocused down at the street below. He isn’t paying much attention, but he notices Sherrinford exiting the building right away, his wavy hair caught in the cold breeze, his shoulders hunched under his coat. Greg watches, confused, as Sherrinford heads for the edge of the pavement, looking this way and that expectantly. He’s… looking for a taxi. 

“Oi!” Greg shouts down at him; he’s only two floors up, Sherrinford can hear him easily. 

He turns and finds Greg on the fire escape. It’s dark and he’s far away, but Greg thinks he smiles a bit. Raises his hand in a wave.

“You’re leaving?” Greg asks, devastated and forgetting to shout it. “Wait!” He does shout then, waves his hands in a bit of a panic. “Hold on!” 

He drops the cigarette into the broken coffee mug he keeps out here for that purpose, and throws himself back into the flat. He doesn't pause to notice that Laurel is engaged in a ferocious three-way snog with Frankie and her girlfriend, that Paul and Chandra have disappeared, as have Marcy and Doug. He just hurries out of the flat and jumps the banister to save time, then thunders down the next flight of stairs three-at-a-time. 

When he shoves the main door open, Sherrinford is still waiting at the kerb. 

“You’re leaving?” Greg repeats, this time demanding it, a bit accusatory despite his best intentions. “Could’ve said bye. That’s not nice. Not very posh and polite of you.”

Sherrinford shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I...called for a taxi. The situation seemed to be...ah. Devolving.”

Greg snorts. “No kidding, it’s like a nature documentary in there. With...lesbian sex.” He nearly groans at himself, scrapes his hand through his hair in frustration. “Listen, about the game—”

“It’s alright,” Sherrinford says, reassuring and smooth. “You saved me. I find things like that...difficult. Awkward.”

“Me, too.”

“I could tell.” Sherrinford’s eyes are cool and light, but there’s warmth in them. He takes a step closer to Greg, like he didn’t really think to do it. Just sort of sways forward. 

“Look,” Greg says, telling himself to stop being such a twit. “I like you. I had a great time tonight.”

Sherrinford twitches a smile that looks sweet on his aristocratic features. “As did I.” 

“So… Listen. I get the idea that you’re… not what we’d call _available_ , or _looking._ Neither am I. I haven’t been. But… if you’d be interested, I’d like to uhm. Ask for your number. Or, well— not _or._ Still give me your number. But I’d _also_ gladly get into whatever cab pulls up in a minute and go wherever it is you're going. I think it’d be fun.” 

Sherrinford huffs a little laugh. “I’m sure it _would_ be,” he says. “I know it would. But… “

“You’re not into taking the risk that you’ll—” Greg gestures vaguely at his own eyes. 

“Not usually, no.”

It’s not a _no,_ not really. Greg shrugs. “Neither am I. But I mean. What are the odds, right? You wouldn’t know me, wouldn’t’ve met me, ever, probably. We don’t exactly come from the same circle.” 

“If almost all romantic films are to be believed,” Sherrinford says, “then the odds would be very good.”

“Eh,” Greg drawls, dismissive. “That’s a cliche.” 

Sherrinford laughs again. “It is.” 

Greg shuffles a bit closer. As he does, a cab rounds the corner. He glances first at it and then at Sherrinford, who’s very close to him now. “I haven’t been laid in almost a year,” he admits, low. “And I think you’re gorgeous. That’s all it has to be. Right? Have you ever just… gone for it?”

“N-no,” Sherrinford replies, and it’s the first time all night he’s sounded anything other than cool and collected. 

“You wanna?” 

They stare at each other, and the cab comes to a stop. Sherrinford makes a vague hand motion to indicate that the driver should wait a moment. 

“I do,” Sherrinford says, and then his hand is on Greg’s waist, pulling him in. “You can get in the cab with me, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Greg says, pulse galloping so that his blood roars in his ears. “Yeah. Preview, first?”

“Yes,” Sherrinford murmurs. 

Their lips meet, soft and sweet and a bit chilled and dry from the winter air. Greg hadn’t bothered to grab his coat before he ran out here, and he’s shivering. He wraps his arms around Sherrinford’s waist underneath his heavy warm coat, and he opens his mouth just a little, darts his tongue out, and Sherrinord sighs and lets him in and then— 

Paul said it was what he thought the fizzy lifting drink from Willy Wonka would feel like. Like his stomach was rising and him with it. 

Greg’s grandfather on his mum’s side told him he’d thought for a minute that he’d been set on fire. 

An ex-girlfriend, when Greg ran into her out at the pub, told him she kissed her soulmate two weeks after she broke up with Greg. Said she burst into tears before she’d even opened her eyes. 

Greg feels like the entire world tilts. Like he’s fallen asleep and dreamed he’s stepped in a hole and jerked awake as his leg spasmed under him. He clutches Sherrinford out of instinct to keep from falling off the face of the world. Sherrinford holds him back, hands tight, and shudders. Greg’s eyes had drifted closed when they leaned in. He’s terrified to open them. _Terrified._ But also wildly elated. 

He didn’t expect it. 

He hadn’t thought he wanted it. 

He knows it’s poetic shite, but… he feels. So. Right. So good. 

He gasps against Sherrinford’s lips and opens his eyes. Sherrinford’s stare back. They are grey, and something else— Greg doesn't know, is it blue?— and gorgeous. Greg’s heart skips a hundred beats.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Greg says before he can stop himself. 

Sherrinford’s eyes fall closed. He pushes Greg back gently. “I have to go,” he says. 

“Wait—”

“This was…” Sherrinford shudders and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Oh, god.”

“Please—”

“Don’t look for me,” Sherrinford says, ragged, and gets into the cab. 

Greg can’t believe how lovely the color of his coat is (is that brown?) as it disappears into the back seat. He can’t believe how black and white it _still_ is on the street at night, but the brake lights on the cab are brilliant.

That’s _red_. Oh, god.

Greg’s shivering on the pavement, and then he’s shaking, and not because of the cold. The lights of the corner shop in the distance are blazing with color. He looks down and his own shoes, battered Chuck Taylors, are the same red as the cab’s lights as they turned the corner. He feels like he might vomit. He feels like he might _cry._

He does neither, but stands there for a long, long time. 

***

**2010** ****

Greg first lays eyes on Mycroft Holmes two weeks after he leaves his wife. He’s heard tell of the man, both from his superiors and from Sherlock. According to Sherlock, Greg should’ve been kidnapped and offered money to spy on Sherlock years ago. 

It never happened, though. When Greg finally sees the elder Holmes, he understands immediately and is so furious that, had he been within punching distance, he might’ve broken the man’s nose without so much as a how-do-you-do. Mycroft Holmes can be seen in the moment it takes for the town car’s back door to open and admit Sherlock. Greg’s standing outside smoking and debating his next move now that the party’s been broken up by the news that some _woman_ Sherlock knew is dead.

Greg hadn’t known that Sherlock knew any women. 

He hadn’t known that Mycroft Holmes is in fact, (and it’s _undeniable;_ Greg’s had the man’s face burned in his memory for over twenty years), _Sherrinford._ Or at least he went by Sherrinford for one night in 1989. 

A good number of things make a sudden sort of sense, but Greg’s so pissed off that he can’t even be smug that he’d _known it,_ all the way back then. The man was some sort of government spook. Must have been fairly green back then, but clearly has climbed the ranks in the time since. 

People say Mycroft Holmes is terrifying. Omniscient. Has access to files you’d be sick to know exist about you. Can find anything about anyone with the snap of his posh fucking fingers, he _knows who Greg is._ Greg knows it as he storms down Baker St. toward where he parked his car. Knows it when he slams the door and when he punches the steering wheel. 

He knows there’s absolutely no way Mycroft Holmes didn’t vet him thoroughly the second Sherlock made contact with him. Mycroft probably saw a printout of Greg’s Met I.D. and thought: _there he is. The bastard who tried to have a casual fuck with me and instead introduced me to the wonders of technicolor. The arsehole I thought I ditched for good._

Greg’s beyond angry, and he’s not just livid at Sherrinford-Mycroft-whoeverthefuck. It’s the entire universe. 

His life really _is_ the plot of some horrendous melodrama obsessed with the cliches and tropes associated with soulmates. It’s everything he never wanted his life to be. 

Though, he thinks, as he lets himself into the shabby studio flat he’s renting while the divorce gets moving, he’s not sure he’s ever known what he _does_ want his life to be. 

Next time he sees Mycroft Holmes though, he’ll have something to say to him. 

***

Unfortunately…

Horribly… Unbelievably…

The next time Greg sees Mycroft is at Sherlock’s funeral. 

Everything _feels_ monochrome, which is a bitter joke Greg tells himself. 

The stone in front of the grave is shiny and black; John picked it. Greg can’t believe he and Sherlock never… that they were both still grayscale by the end. The end of Sherlock. 

After the service, Greg steels himself and approaches Mycroft at the lee of the cemetery. 

“Hullo,” he says, then clears his throat to rid his voice of the hoarseness he’s been carrying around for days. “We’ve… not been properly introduced.”

Mycroft’s lips form a thin smile. “Not in this century, no,” he says. 

Greg very nearly laughs in shock. “So you do know who I am.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, steady and unaffected. 

“And because you can do what he could do, you know somehow that I know who you are.”

“Yes.”

Greg swallows, hard. “Fuck,” he sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, determined not to wish he had cigarettes in one of them; he’d been quitting before Sherlock went and he’ll keep his promise even though— “Fuck,” he says again, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“I can’t express to you how… grateful I am. For the things you did for my brother.”

“Don’t,” Greg snaps, sure he’s going to lose it. “I should have helped him, I should have known what was going to happen. I—” 

“You mustn’t blame yourself.”

Mycroft is _touching him._

Greg’s fucking soulmate is touching his arm, and it’s so awkward, and Greg is so devastated and _tired._ He takes a step back and Mycroft’s hand falls away. 

“I came over here to say that if you ever…” Greg hauls air into his lungs. It’s an effort. He needs to get out of here, it’s all too weird. “If you ever want to talk to me. About Sherlock. Or anything. I’d be alright with that.”

“Because you are my soulmate?” 

It’s not even said pointedly. There’s no _tone._ Greg can’t muster up the anger he knows he’d be feeling under any other circumstances. “Because I cared about Sherlock,” Greg says. “Because… I know you might not have someone else to talk to. Maybe you do, but just… you Holmeses.” Greg shrugs. “If you’re like him, you don’t know how to… I don’t know. Forget it. Just. I’m sure you could find me, if you wanted.”

He walks away without waiting for Mycroft to say anything more. 

***

They run into each other once. Greg’s looking for John, and Mycroft’s checking in with Mrs. Hudson for some reason. 

“Doctor Watson is not in residence,” Mycroft says, hovering awkwardly outside 221’s front door. “He has chosen to vacate Baker Street in favor of his sister’s Murphy bed.”

“Shit,” Greg sighs. “I was hoping to catch him, get him to go down the pub or something. He’s barely been seen or heard from.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Mycroft says, and he’s a bit pinched around the eyes. “I… am unsure how to support him. We aren’t well acquainted, and he’s rather angry with me.”

Greg can’t help it, he smiles a bit. “Something tells me you’re used to people being angry with you.” 

“Well—” Mycroft pauses, taken aback. “Yes, actually.” 

Greg ducks his head, shaking it. It’s hard to look at Mycroft’s face. Greg keeps superimposing a past version on top of the current one. “Yeah,” he says. “Look, you want to grab a coffee at Speedy’s?”

To his shock, Mycroft accepts. 

The whole thing lasts less than an hour, and it’s pleasant-bordering-on-nice. 

Greg wonders if maybe they can be friends. It happens. Soulmates don’t have to be _together_ together. That’s the norm, of course. But studies have shown they tend to get along well platonically and benefit from non-romantic or non-sexual relationships. Greg _knows_ the science, limited as it is (there’s still no conclusive evidence about what even triggers the color shift— hormones or enzymes or genetics or bloody _magic),_ and he’s wondered often, over the years, if he and his soulmate would do well as friends if they ever met again. 

But apparently Mycroft hasn’t. He thanks Greg for the coffee, then insists on paying for it, doesn't offer a contact number or anything, and climbs into a waiting town car while Greg stands on the pavement like an idiot. Again. 

Of course, they don’t see each other again after, because Mycroft’s a slippery bastard. 

Greg shrugs it off, and gets on with his life. 

***

Sherlock comes back two years later. It takes a couple of weeks for Greg to cotton on, but when he does, he sees red. _Really_ sees red, it’s like his whole field of vision just dissolves and all that’s there is the brake-light glare of red. The next thing he knows, he’s got Sherlock by the collar, demanding to know where the _fuck_ Mycroft can be found this time of day. 

That posh arsehole spends his late afternoons at a _private gentleman’s club_ with a _rule of fucking silence._

By the time Greg gets to his office, led there by a nervous-looking attendant dressed in tails (fuck _sake_ ), Greg thinks his eyes must have actually _turned_ red. 

Mycroft’s face goes satisfyingly white when Greg storms in, breathing like a raging bull. 

“You,” Greg spits. “You fucking _snake,_ I was an _idiot_ to kiss you.”

Mycroft sets down his pen— naturally, it’s a fountain pen with an actual _nib,_ and oh Greg hates him. 

“There’s no magic,” Greg continues, chest heaving. “Not in this. Not in you. There can’t be. If there was you could _never_ have—” his fists clench. “You lied to me. For two years.”

“How, pray tell, could I have lied to you when I haven’t even seen you for two years,” Mycroft replies coldly. 

“You know what I mean!” Greg finally raises his voice. “I was… a mess. My career was on bloody _fire_ for months, and you knew the entire time he was alive. You let me— you let John Watson almost grieve himself to death! How fucking _could you?”_

Greg always thought that the main benefit to seeing in color was the boost it gave his career; investigative police work wasn’t doable in grayscale. No one made D.I. who didn’t have color. 

Now he thinks the other benefit is that he can see the color rising to Mycroft’s cheeks. Can see the white of his knuckles where his hands clench at the edge of his desk. It satisfies him to have upset him. To have ruffled him, knocked him off kilter. _Good._

“Please,” Mycroft says from between clenched teeth. “Sit down. And let me attempt an explanation.”

“No,” Greg says, obstinate, even though he knows he’ll do it. He needs to know, and Sherlock’s never going to tell him all of it. Sherlock has no idea that he and Mycroft are what they are. He can't explain it in a way that Greg can understand. Not that Greg can even begin to imagine ever understanding. 

He sits. 

Mycroft talks. 

Greg feels a bit stupid by the end of it. Not for being angry; he’s angry about a lot of things, and he’s bloody well justified. But… if he is who he’s always said he is, how can he expect anything from Mycroft that Mycroft wouldn’t give anyone else? Why does it hurt him so much to think that he was right, all this time, about soulbonds?

He’s told himself so many times that it’s just… chemistry. The hormones or the enzymes. Not magic. It’s not a commitment or an obligation, people just make it out to be because people need things like that. Things like God and legends and fate and fairytales. Greg’s line of work illustrates _why_ people need it, every single day. 

But Greg’s been telling himself that he doesn't since long before he ever laid eyes on Mycroft Holmes. 

After the explanation peters off, and Greg has been read in on the awful extent of Moriarty’s havoc, Mycroft looks exhausted and vulnerable, his chin resting on his folded hands, elbows propped against his desk. His hair is disheveled from where he ran his fingers through it. The action disturbed the product holding its careful arrangement. Greg can see ginger in it. 

It had been too dark, twenty or so years ago, to see that it was red. 

Greg feels strange. Hollowed out and softened up. And a little mean. 

“Why Sherrinford?” he asks. 

It does what he wanted it to do; Mycroft is startled into an honest answer. “Sherlock and I have a sibling. He does not know. Please do not tell him. The name is a connection. I used it because at that time I was… prone to practicing small deceptions on unsuspecting strangers.”

Greg, unable to muster up the shock he knows he should feel at the revelation there in the first half, leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “You know,” he says. “Sometimes I think: soulmates are a myth. And then you say something like that, and I think: Christ, I like him anyway. Doesn't make sense, does it?”

Mycroft straightens, stiffening back up again. “How nice to know that a nebulous combination of chemicals and dumb luck have led you to believe that, despite my many obvious flaws, you might on occassion find my presence in some way _palatable.”_

“That,” Greg says slowly, “is not at all what I meant.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Greg stands. 

“Call me some time,” Greg says. “Maybe then you’ll figure it out.”

***

What’s really surprising is that Mycroft does. 

They talk, often. They even meet for drinks a few times, and it’s really nice. 

They do not talk about the kiss or their status as color-sighted or their theoretical bond. But they do become friends, of a sort. Greg starts to rely on it a little; it seems he can say things to Mycroft he doesn't feel he can say to anyone else. He often wonders if Mycroft feels the same. Mycroft certainly _seems_ to talk to him more, and in a more _real_ way. Greg hopes he’s not wrong about it, though who can tell? Mycroft is Mycroft. He has a whole sibling hidden somewhere. (He has not brought that up again, either. Greg’s afraid to.)

A couple of months into their strange not-quite-friendship, they have drinks at Mycroft’s stuffy old club and talk about other people’s bonds or lack thereof. 

“D’you think…?”

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t. You haven’t tried to ask him?”

Greg scoffs. “Come on, you know I can’t. It just isn’t done. I used to be a bit closer with John, more friendly, but Sherlock… all of that really changed him, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near me for the longest. Not that I blame him. Anyway, no, it’s not my place to ask him if Mary gave him color.”

“Tell me,” Mycroft says softly. “Does he strike you as a man who is still grayscale?”

Greg sighs. “Well, he clearly strikes _you_ as one.”

“It surprises me, and pains me to say, but I can’t exactly _tell_. John Watson is…”

 _“Repressed,”_ Greg blurts, then draws up short, eyes wide at his own gall. “I mean— “

Mycroft snorts and covers his laugh with one elegant hand. “Well,” he says. “Yes.”

“You think he’d hide it, if he could see?” Greg wonders. “Or maybe he’d...pretend he could? Haven’t you dug up all sorts of information on her? No record of her status?”

Mycroft makes an odd, noncommittal little sound.

“Shit, you aren’t sure about _her,_ are you?” Greg leans forward in his chair. “Mycroft, is she… safe?”

“Nothing indicates that she isn’t,” Mycroft says, and Greg is surprised at how contrite he looks. He feels badly, can’t say more and wishes he could. 

Greg takes pity and gives him a pass. “I see,” he says. Then, bravely, “I hid my color-sightedness.”

Mycroft blinks, slow, from across his desk. “Did you?”

“Only told my sister at first.” 

“Why?”

Greg shrugs. “Wasn’t anyone’s business. I didn’t cop to it til I’d made Detective Sergeant. Seemed like I’d need it to get to DI.” 

This is the first time they’ve come close to discussing whatever it is they almost were to each other. 

“I was required by policy to report it the next day,” Mycroft says. 

“Ain’t that a bitch,” Greg replies with a sympathetic smile. 

“Quite,” says Mycroft. Then, after a long pause, “All evidence or lack thereof aside… if there is any logic to soulmates, which science would suggest there is... Or if there is any magic or God or fate involved, for that matter… There is no possible way that that woman, charming as she undeniably is, is John Watson’s.”

“Hear fucking hear,” Greg says, and extends his glass of scotch.

Mycroft clinks his own against Greg’s, and for a while they sit and drink in companionable silence. 

***

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Sherlock’s gone and murdered a media mogul and somehow got off scot free, and the Watsons are in the process of divorce a mere six months post-wedding. 

The state of things is not the best, in general. Greg’s been witnessing so many slow implosions and spectacular explosions in the personal lives of, it seems, everyone around him lately. 

Even Donovan’s got herself all tied in knots now, on an online dating tear in search of someone to kick her world into color so she can apply for promotion already. 

“And maybe cease the disgusting affair with Anderson,” Sherlock had intoned over a corpse just last week. 

Sally’d nearly ripped his hair out. 

“I only meant she could do better,” Sherlock had clarified once she’d been dragged away hissing. 

“Well she knows that, mate,” Greg had sighed. “Kind of the point.”

He wanted badly to ask Sherlock then about what the _hell_ is between him and John, but he didn't. Sherlock wouldn’t be offended by the socially unacceptable prying, but it’s obvious Sherlock is still grayscale (something he has insisted doesn't hinder him at all, and it probably doesn't; the lack of knowledge though, it chafes at Sherlock and it shows) and Greg doesn't want to accidentally poke one of the man’s few soft spots. 

Now though, on Valentine’s Day, a day Greg hates, he’s tired and cold and Sherlock is on his last nerve. 

Greg’s stuck on a container ship having a fight with Sherlock when what he’d like to be is at home in front of the telly, ignoring this holiday and forcing himself not to expect Sherlock’s stupid brother to call. 

Greg used to jokingly call this holiday Grayscalers Awareness Day. Then, after _Sherrinford,_ he made a conscious effort to have a girlfriend to spend it with. One of those girlfriends had become his wife, and the day had suddenly exerted so much _pressure._ Since the divorce it’s become _You’re a Bad Cliche Day_ for Greg, the rare Color Sighted Sad Bastard. 

As he stands on the bow of the ship, watching Sherlock whirl away to examine the containers they’ve already heard are empty about seven hundred times, Greg lets himself wonder. What would happen if he just gave in to the cheesy drama of his own life and behaved like the horrendously hopeless leading man in every shit romcom?

If Greg left this dirty boat and this stinking dock and crossed town to The Diogenes and just invited himself in, walked himself to Mycroft’s office, leaned himself across Mycroft’s desk, grabbed him by the tie, and kissed the living daylights out of him, would he realize that, without his notice, colors had in fact lost some of their vivid flavors over time? Would reconnecting with his erstwhile soulmate bring them back? Would he feel, like he had in that single moment almost a quarter century ago, as if the world had tipped on its axis?

He heaves a sigh and tells himself to shut up. He moves to go for Sherlock, and wonders why John hasn’t yet. John usually reels Sherlock in sooner than this; the boat is clearly a dead end. Actually, where _is_ John?

As Greg thinks it, he hears John shout. He sees Sherlock spinning back around. He does not see the man in black barreling out of one of the supposedly-empty containers, nor does he see John lunging after. He doesn't have time to react. 

The man in black is a blur, and then he is a solid, moving object slamming into Greg’s side. Greg’s feet slide out from under him and the moving object shoves him up against the rail on the side of the ship’s deck. There is pain; he’s cracked a rib, at least. And then the world tilts just like Greg had been thinking not a moment before. 

Greg and the man in black go over the side of the ship. 

Greg hits the water and goes under. His coat is heavy and his torso is on fire. His body met the water with too much force, and he’d tensed up in anticipation, so he has...whiplash, maybe. He can’t see. Everything is just murk and dim light. It’s late in the day and this water is deep. Has to be, for a ship of that size to dock. Greg doesn't know if he’s facing up or down. When he kicks, he feels heavy. When he tries to move his arms, he can’t. He needs to breathe. He needs to get out of his coat somehow. He needs— 

***

When Greg is next aware, he’s in hospital, and John is next to his bed. John tells him he’s alright. He technically drowned. He’s got an IV for fluids, pain medication for the broken rib and sore sternum, and antibiotics. Thames water is disgusting, and it was in Greg’s lungs. 

“Sherlock got you out,” John says, when he gets to that point in the story. “I did CPR.” 

“Oh,” Greg mumbles, feeling slow and tired. “Thanks.”

John pats his arm. “I am a doctor, after all. And your friend. Not your soulmate, though, or I’d be able to tell why all the nurses keep calling you the silver fox in room six.” 

“You’ve thought I had frosted tips all this time?” Greg jokes. 

John rolls his eyes.

“You know I’m sighted,” Greg says. “Have to be, to be a DI.” 

John stands. “I was just joking,” he says. 

“You know who you need to talk to,” Greg blurts, too out of it to stop himself this time. “If you wanna see m’hair. If you wanna see all of it. Just bloody kiss the idiot, John. He’ll… he’ll love you, mate. Already does.”

John gives Greg the look that Greg’s only ever seen him give Sherlock himself: wide-eyes, caught breath, stunned and thrilled. 

“Okay, mate,” John says absently, not focused on Greg any longer. “Look, I’m off out to speak to your doctor. I’ll be back to check in. Want me to call your sister?”

“Mmmmno,” Greg replies. His eyes already feel heavy. “Call...M’croft.”

***

It hadn’t occurred to Greg, when he was fuzzy on painkillers and exhaustion from bloody _drowning_ , that Mycroft would already have known something had gone very wrong, because it hadn’t occurred to him that, for a brief time, he had been technically dead. 

The side effect of a soulmate’s death is the one thing that places a little tick in the _magic_ column, when it comes to explanations for the phenomenon: When your soulmate’s heart stops, your colors drain. 

When Greg wakes again, Mycroft is there, and he’s holding Greg’s hand, and he’s asleep. He’s in a terrible hospital chair, suit jacket missing, hunched over with his face pressed to the blanket right next to Greg’s hip. 

Greg stares down at him, failing to comprehend what’s going on. He pats Mycroft’s head with his free hand. It’s nice, so he cards his fingers through it. That’s nicer. 

Mycroft stirs.

“Hey,” Greg croaks when their eyes meet in the dim light of the room. 

“Hello,” Mycroft whispers. 

“Don’t go,” Greg says, already feeling himself starting to drift off again. 

“Never,” Mycroft murmurs. 

Greg lets himself go back to sleep. 

***

Mycroft is oddly business-like when Greg wakes to his morphine being taken away and discharge papers being drawn up. 

“Paracetamol,” the nurse says. She’s telling _Mycroft_ and not Greg. “Get him home, into bed or on the sofa for more rest. Antibiotics, ten days, do not miss a dose, do not shorten the course. No heavy lifting for that rib. Follow up with his GP. Understood?”

“Yes, madam,” Mycroft says, practically _bowing._ “I shall take the situation in hand from here, thank you.”

“What the fuck,” Greg grumbles as the nurse leaves. He’s finally wearing real clothes— he made Mycroft leave so he could change, slow and achy, in peace. He has no idea how his softest jeans and favorite jumper found their way to St. Bart’s, but he’s grateful. Can’t bend down to put on his shoes, though.

Mycroft does it, brusque and efficient in his movements. 

“What’s happening?” Greg demands, grouchy with pain and confusion. “What are you doing?”

Mycroft looks up from where he’s knelt on the floor, tying Greg’s trainers. “Would you prefer someone else? John did suggest we could contact your sister.” 

Greg blinks down at him. “No,” he says. “Don’t— I just mean… I never thought you would want—” 

Mycroft double knots Greg’s shoelaces and stands. “I don’t wish to discuss it here,” he says stiffly. “Shall I call the nurse for your wheelchair? My assistant is bringing my car around.”

Greg sighs, resists the urge to lean forward and rest his head against Mycroft’s chest. He wants to, so badly. Christ, could he use a hug right about now. “Fine,” he says instead, looking away. 

***

Mycroft’s posh car, which is presented to them by a leggy brunette who does not join them in the back seat, and which is driven by someone Greg never sees, takes them to Greg’s flat. It’s a third floor one-bedroom. No elevator. Mycroft helps him up the stairs with no discussion. He produces Greg’s keys and wallet from the inside pocket of his coat, and follows Greg into the apartment. 

“The nurse prescribed the sofa or your bed,” he says. “Which would you prefer?”

Greg submits himself to this awkward dance of caring and says, “Sofa.” 

He’s afraid if he says bed, Mycroft will tell him to go to sleep and then leave. 

Once he’s settled, gingerly, on the sofa, Mycroft fetches him a blanket and tucks it carefully around Greg’s legs. He disappears and then returns with a glass of water and the paracetamol, and then disappears again. 

Greg stares off into space and wonders what anything means. The last two days are a jumble; his memories are fragmented and don’t make sense. He knows Mycroft was there all night last night, that he held Greg’s hand. 

He remembers Mycroft saying: _Never._

He doesn't have a clue what any of it means. 

Maybe he should’ve called Laura, after all. Or had Mycroft drop him off at her flat. It wouldn’t be the first time she took care of him when he’s injured. It wouldn’t be the first time she caught him in her gentle, big-sisterly arms after he went and got all fucked up over his soulmate. 

He can still remember her face the night she opened her door to find him, duffle bag in hand, standing on her doormat shaking and saying: _I fucked up. Your hair is almost yellow. I never knew. Help._

She would’ve taken care of him, and wouldn’t have forced him to handle all his complicated soulmate feelings. At least not right away. 

But Mycroft comes back with tea and biscuits, and then gingerly perches on the edge of the sofa cushion, just next to Greg’s outstretched feet. 

“Mycroft,” Greg starts. 

He’s interrupted. “Everything went… grey,” Mycroft says. 

“What?”

“You were dead for twenty seconds, I think.” Mycroft isn’t looking at him. “I don’t know, because I… had a panic attack.”

“... _what?”_

“Your heart—” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Must have stopped. The color, it…” he faces Greg, and he’s stricken. “It just drained away. I couldn’t... breathe.”

“It must have been...very strange.”

“It was the single worst moment of my life,” Mycroft says, simple and factual. “Anthea had to bring me a paper bag in which to breathe. I can’t say when the color returned, because I could not _see_ straight. I thought I had lost you. I thought I had missed my chance.”

Greg’s heart squeezes in his chest. “What chance?”

Mycroft looks away from him again with a shrug. “I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose I have told myself some version of a fairytale since the night I left you in front of your flat. I’d quit my job, come find you and apologize. You would join MI6, immediately forgive me, and it wouldn’t matter, we would be so good as a team that no one could possibly care if we were friends or lovers or soulmates or all of it.” He sighs. “You would wait for me to feel ready to be a real friend to you. You would still want me to be more than that, even now. You... You. Just… my chance for you.” 

Greg can’t breathe. 

“I’d be a terrible spy,” he manages to say. “MI6 wouldn’t’ve wanted me. If you had quit your job and shown back up on my doorstep, I don’t know that I wouldn’t have slammed the door in your face. That wouldn’t have been your fault. I have waited for you to be my friend, and you’ve started to try. I do want more. I want _more._ I want _you.”_

Mycroft laughs and shakes his head. “Because I’m your soulmate?”

This time, Greg doesn't take it as a dig or an expression of derision. 

“No,” he says. “Because you’re Mycroft Holmes. You’re brilliant and gorgeous, and I _like_ you. And because you’re my soulmate. Studies show that things should go really well for us from here on out. If we’d let them.”

Mycroft turns, finally, and looks at him for real this time. “I believe that I’m in love with you,” he says.

Greg’s got a broken rib; he’d probably be short of breath no matter what. But that really does steal the air right out of him. 

“So kiss me,” he says. 

Mycroft leans forward, and Greg catches his face in both hands, and their lips meet. 

The world doesn't tilt. It rights itself. 

The colors don’t flare. They hum. 

Greg doesn't fall, he rises. Like fizzy lifting drink. Like smoke. Like love.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following excerpt from a speech by Alan Watts: 
> 
> “Well now really when we go back, then, to falling in love. And say: it’s crazy, falling. You see, we don’t say rising into love. There is in it the idea of the fall. And it goes back, as a matter of fact, to two extremely fundamental things. That there is always a curious tie at some point between the fall and the creation. Taking this ghastly risk is the condition of there being life. You see, for all life is an act of faith and an act of gamble. The moment you take a step, you do so on an act of faith, because you don’t really know that the floor’s not going to give in to your feet. The moment you take a journey-- what an act of faith. The moment you enter into any kind of human undertaking in a relationship-- what an act of faith. You see, you’ve given yourself up. But this is the most powerful thing that can be done: surrender, see, and love is an act of surrender to another person. Total abandonment. I give myself to you. Take me, do anything you like with me. So, that’s quite mad because you see it’s letting things get out of control. All sensible people keep things in control. Watch it, watch it, watch it. Security. Vigilance. Watch it police, watch it Gods. Watch it-- who’s going to watch the Gods? So actually, there for all the cost and wisdom, what is really sensible is to let go. That is, to commit oneself, to give oneself up. And that’s quite mad, so we come to the strange conclusion that in madness lies sanity.”


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